by Lara Adrian
“But what?”
“I think you should aim higher. Anyone can work at an accounting firm. You need to think bigger. What would make you happiest?”
“I like helping people. I like to think I’m making a difference in someone’s life.” She shrugs, suddenly reticent. She looks down at the napkin in her lap. “You were right, you know? When you said I need to feel indispensable. That I need to feel I matter, and that I won’t be . . . thrown away.”
My chest constricts at the reminder of that insensitive comment I made yesterday. Her quiet reminder of it now makes me feel as if I’ve just been kicked in the solar plexus. I fucking should be. “I was a prick to say that to you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
She glances up at me, her gaze tender, apologetic. “I didn’t mean any of the awful things I said about you, either. But you were right about me, Jared. I’ve been taking care of my mom and Katie because I like knowing they need me.”
“No.” I reach over and wrap my fingers around hers. “You’ve been taking care of them because you’re a good person. You’re strong and loyal, the kind of person everyone wishes they had in their life. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”
She smiles, turning her hand so our fingers are laced together. “I think you’re pretty special, too. I thought I had you figured out the moment I met you, but I was wrong. You’re so much more than you want people to believe.”
“I’m not.” I pull my hand away, uncomfortable with her praise. Especially when there are too many things she doesn’t yet know about me. Things that would bring this moment crashing down around me. “Just because I’ve given you a few spectacular orgasms, don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not the same self-absorbed, overbearing asshole you first met.”
She slowly shakes her head. “I don’t know many self-absorbed, overbearing assholes who sponsor art programs for underprivileged kids.”
I’m shocked she remembers I told her that. Then again, nothing should shock me when it comes to her.
“Tell me about the rec center program you mentioned.” She lifts the burger and takes another bite, patiently waiting for me to speak.
“Dominic Baine’s fiancée, Avery, persuaded me to get involved in that. She and I met at Dominion gallery the same year she hooked up with Nick.”
“I know her work,” Melanie says. “She’s an incredibly talented artist.”
“Yes, she is. She’s also got a kind heart, like you. The rec center in Chelsea means everything to Nick and her. It’s the first center he built, and the one where they test out new programs and events for the kids. She’d been wanting to install an art program for a while. Not the typical paint-by-numbers bullshit kids might expect, but something to truly inspire as well as instruct.”
“It sounds amazing. What’s your role in the program?”
“I help fund it, primarily. I also call in favors and twist arms within the art world to bring in creators to talk to the kids and teach an occasional class. I have to admit, I’m proud of the people I’ve been able to introduce the kids to. These are artists the public would generally only recognize by their works on display in important galleries and museums.”
She grins. “Wow. What a self-absorbed, overbearing asshole you are, Jared.”
I chuckle, marveling at the ease with which she can draw me into her light. “If you want to know the truth, I’m doing it for Kathryn. Helping the kids at the rec center—especially good kids who just need a break, like Alyssa—makes me feel I’m doing something worthwhile. Alyssa’s got a real gift for painting. With the right guidance and opportunity, I think she could turn that natural ability into something truly extraordinary.”
“And that’s what you’re providing for her and the rest of those kids in the program. Guidance and opportunity. Even more than that, I think.”
“I want to give them a chance to lift themselves up, not let a few bad choices or a shitty home life destroy them for good.”
“Because that’s what Kathryn Tremont did for you.”
I nod. “It’s the only way I know how to pay her kindness forward.”
Melanie’s gaze is soft and thoughtful. “I’m sure she’d like that. Have you ever considered starting a school of your own?”
“Christ, no. Even if I had the interest, I don’t have room in my life for the kind of commitment that would require. I’ve never been a long-term kind of guy. And now . . .”
I don’t have to say the words out loud for Melanie to pick up on them. She studies me with a compassionate, yet practical gaze.
“You can’t stop living or doing the things you enjoy, Jared. That includes painting. I think you should keep creating as long as you can. I think you need to paint, almost as much as you need to breathe.”
I feel myself nodding in agreement, even though there’s a gnashing fear inside me that’s screaming at me to let my art go. To give up.
Melanie’s tender affection is the only thing that’s ever been powerful enough to silence it, even for a minute.
I push my empty plate away and hold my hand out for her, an invitation for her to come sit with me on my chair. She steps over and settles on my lap. I hold her there, both of us looking out at the calm tide for a long while.
Her fingers play idly in my hair. “You seem so much more relaxed out here than in the city.”
“I love the ocean,” I admit. “Especially when the waves are green like they are today. They make me think of Kentucky pastures, all the rolling hills on the farm. There’s nothing in the city that evens me out like being here does.”
“Have you been back to your family’s farm since you left?”
“Only once, seven years ago. I wanted to see the bulldozers roll in and knock every building down. I stayed until they had plowed the whole damn place under.”
She goes utterly still in my arms. Then she carefully lifts my chin, coaxing me to look at her. “Who did that to your home, Jared?”
“I did.” I think back on that day, all my anger. All the pain I wanted to bury along with the barns and the beautiful, rambling house I once loved. “After my first multi-million dollar auction for one of my paintings, I used most of the proceeds to buy back the farm from its new owners. The ink wasn’t even dry before I arranged for the wrecking crew to come in and raze the whole property. I didn’t want the reminders. I didn’t want to think about someone else living in a place that should have been ours. I left as soon as it was done and haven’t been back.”
“Jared.” Melanie’s gaze has never looked so sad, so bleak. She’s shocked at what I’ve done. Appalled, even. But there’s an anguish that goes deeper than that. Anguish for me. “I hate Denton Sweeney for everything he did to your family, and the others he bilked. I hope he’s rotting in the worst kind of hell.”
Her voice is filled with quiet fury. There is a fierce protectiveness in her words and in her beautiful, sad eyes, as if she would defend me to her last breath—or burn down the world before she’d let anyone do me harm.
I’ve never seen anyone look at me like she is now. Her caring rocks me to my core. So does her strength. She’s a lioness, a warrior queen.
And she’s mine.
At least, I want to pretend she is. I want to pretend I’m worthy of the devotion I see in Melanie’s lovely face. That I might one day be deserving of her.
A low rumble of thunder in the distance warns of a coming storm. The clouds are darkening overhead, the winds kicking up from the water.
“We can’t stay like this,” I murmur, wishing I could hold her in my arms forever. I reach up and smooth some of the bright copper tendrils of her hair away from her cheek. “We should go inside.”
She nods silently, her gaze still holding mine with a tenderness that nearly breaks me. “I’ll get the plates and glasses.”
We clear the table and take everything into the house just as the rains begin to sweep in from the horizon. She puts the condiments away while I load the dishwasher and turn it on.
Without speaking, she briefly caresses my back, then places a warm kiss between my shoulder blades.
The air stirs as she moves away, but it takes me a minute to realize she’s no longer in the kitchen with me.
“Melanie?”
I step through the empty living area, hearing nothing but the sound of rain pattering on the roof and against the windows. My bare feet carry me to the studio at the back of the sprawling beach house, and there I find her.
Standing in the center of my workspace, she’s just taken off her white jeans. My mouth waters at the sight of her long, bare legs. She pulls her top over her head and lets it fall from her fingertips to the floor.
I step inside, drawn as surely as a moth to a flame. “What are you doing?”
“Making the most of a rainy day.” Smiling, she removes her bra and panties, then closes the distance between us. “You’re overdressed.”
She unbuttons my shirt, then peels it off me. I can’t resist the urge to kiss her. Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I pull her against me and cover her mouth with mine. Our kiss is unhurried and tender, despite the rising demand of our mutual need for each other.
When we part to catch our breath, there is a gleam of mischief in her eyes. She reaches down to the work table next to my easel and picks up a paintbrush.
“I’m feeling creative,” she says, unscrewing the cap from one of the jars of paint.
I arch a brow, but watch without resistance as she dips the brush into the black acrylic then brings the soft bristles up to my bare chest. Her little hum as she paints a large circle around my pectoral makes my cock go hard. When she leans in and traces a tighter circle around my nipple with her tongue, the low, carnal growl that rumbles in my chest is as deep as the thunder rolling outside.
I take the brush out of her loose grasp and paint a small heart around one of her perfect nipples. “Exactly how creative are you feeling, Ms. Laurent?”
“Extremely.”
I grunt, hunger in the sound. “That’s a dangerous thing to say. I might just decide to test your limits.”
She gives me a saucy smile. “I’m not sure I have any limits with you.”
With nimble fingers, she unfastens my jeans and sweeps them over my hips along with my boxer briefs. My cock springs loose, jutting upward like a spear. Aching for her attention.
She doesn’t disappoint.
Pushing me down onto the stool behind my easel, she removes my pants then sinks to her knees in front of me. She teases my erection with a flick of her tongue, wrenching a desperate moan out of me. Then her hands cup my shaft like an offering before she takes the head of me into her hot, wet mouth.
Ah, Christ. I’m on the razor’s edge of exploding as she runs her tongue and fingers all over it. My blood races, need lashing me at the mere idea of taking Melanie any way I can imagine.
I refuse to picture introducing her to any of the private kink clubs I used to frequent around the city, because fuck if I would even consider sharing her with anyone. I was done with that life even before I met her; now, she’s the only thing I crave. Still, my mind runs wild with endless erotic possibilities for us to explore together, all the countless ways I want to make her come.
I let my head fall back on a groan as she takes me deep into her mouth, then draws back on a slow, torturous slide up my length. The wet slurping sound as my engorged head slips out of her mouth wrenches a hard hiss through my gritted teeth.
“Feeling inspired, Mr. Rush?”
I drop my chin and open my eyes to find her gazing at me in wicked delight. “Fuck yes, I’m feeling inspired. And about a hundred other things.”
“Good.” She licks her lips, but instead of taking my cock for another spin inside the heat of her gorgeous mouth, she moves away from me. She stands up between my parted thighs while I gape at her in bewilderment, every fiber of my being coiled with the need for more of her.
She hands me the paintbrush we used on each other a moment ago.
I frown. “What’s this?”
“You can have me any way you like,” she says, leaning close, her pretty breasts not even an inch away from my face. “After you fill that empty canvas in front of you.”
I reach for her and she dances backward. I scowl, my balls in a knot and my erection setting off a blaze of raw need in my veins.
Grabbing a clean paintbrush from the collection on the table, she walks across the studio to the overstuffed chair facing me. Challenge glitters in her stormy eyes as she brings one foot up onto the cushion, her other leg spread at just the right angle to give me a perfect view of her pussy. The pink folds are slick and swollen, ripe for my taking.
But it’s clear she’s not going to let me.
Not until I put some paint on my damned canvas.
At first, all I can do is stare, dumbfounded and frustrated. My cock stands as tall as a flagpole, my chest heaving with every raw beat. I’ve never painted with a hard-on before. No matter how erotic or sexual my art is, I’ve always approached it with pure objectivity, saving my emotion for the result on the canvas.
With Melanie, it’s impossible to separate how I feel for her—how intensely I want her.
To say she inspires me is more than understatement. I’m obsessed. She consumes me, and has from the start.
Now, she owns me in ways I never dreamed were possible.
Tapping the bristles of the paintbrush against her parted lips, she smiles at me while I drink in every nuance of her beauty and light.
“You can begin anytime, Mr. Rush.” Her eyes locked on mine, she slides the paintbrush over her chin and down between her breasts on a slow path toward her parted thighs. When the long bristles reach the seam of her sex and begin to play in her wetness, I feel it like a spur to my sides.
“Holy Christ,” I utter, my vision hazing over with lust.
I stab my brush into the open paint pot, then bring it to the empty canvas. There’s no need to sketch anything first. My hand moves as if it’s possessed.
The image comes to life in what seems like seconds, and while it’s only black strokes and far from finished, I’ll be damned if it isn’t one of the best things I’ve produced in years.
Possibly ever.
“Are you going to show me?” Melanie asks, starting to get up from the chair.
“Later.” I toss down the paintbrush and stalk toward her. “First, I mean to claim my reward.”
27
MELANIE
It’s mid-afternoon, the rains long cleared, when Jared and I touch ground again at the small airport in Queens.
Our day at the beach house was so incredible it feels like a dream, one I never want to wake up from. Seeing Jared at work in his studio, being part of it with him, was a gift all of its own. The rest of it—the hours of phenomenal sex and sensual games that pushed us both to the limits of how much pleasure we could bear—are moments I’ll carry with me for the rest of my days.
And then there was the painting. Although I’d been familiar with his inimitable style, the arresting sexuality of Jared’s art, I hadn’t been prepared for seeing myself through his artist’s eye.
Raw, intimate, real. He captured me physically, erotically, but he also seemed to peer into the depths of my soul, into the place where I can’t conceal my feelings for him. Somehow the man I didn’t want to like in the beginning has become the one I don’t want to imagine living without.
If he could see all that when he painted me, I wonder if he can see it now, too, as he glances at me while the private plane taxis in from the short runway. Smiling, his eyes are tender on me as he lifts our joined hands to his lips and kisses the backs of my fingers.
“Next time, we should plan to stay overnight,” he says, his deep voice full of sensual promise.
He looks calm and relaxed in his seat beside me, his muscled thighs spread and his thick mane of hair still damp, like mine, from the shower we took together before leaving the beach house. He’s so irresistibly masculine and sexy, it�
�s all I can do not to unbuckle my seatbelt and climb on top of him.
And, yes, I believe he can see through to my heart even now. The look he gives me is pure fire, banked but still smoldering in his whisky-dark eyes. “How soon do you think you could get away for a weekend?”
The thought of filling three days—and the nights—with more of what we did today speeds my pulse and makes me squirm in the leather seat. “If Mom continues doing well these next few days, I could probably sneak away at the end of this week.”
“Good. If you’d feel better having twenty-four-hour care for her, I can make the arrangements and have the staff in place as soon as tomorrow.”
I arch my brows at him. “Haven’t we discussed this? You’ve already done enough.”
He grins. “Ah, but my motives are purely selfish now. It’s going to be hell waiting for the next time I can get you naked.”
I can’t hold back my smile. I can’t hold back the soaring elation that’s battering inside my ribs like a caged bird, either. Dear Lord, I’m falling fast.
No, it’s worse than that.
I’m already there. My heart belongs to this man.
And in some hopeful corner of my soul, I think he might be at least a little bit in love with me, too.
His phone chimes with an incoming text. He scans it, his expression contemplative. “It’s from Dominic Baine. He must’ve sent it just as we were taking off.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. He and Avery are at the Chelsea rec center. A shipment of new equipment for the art classroom arrived today. They’re asking if I’d like to weigh in on the installation.”
“Right now?”
He nods. “It’s okay, I don’t need to be there. By the time I drop you at home, it’ll be too late to get to Chelsea before they’re gone.”
“No. You should go, Jared.” I squeeze his hand. “It’s your project, too. They wouldn’t have asked you if they didn’t think it was important for you to be there. I can catch the subway home from here.”
He balks, scowling. “Out of the question.”
